Margaret opened the email eagerly, and then, as she read it, for the first time in one year, two months and three days she felt the presence of clouds in her heart. Real Ale? He’d never mentioned an interest in Real Ale before. Real Ale was a bit of an anoraks’ thing, wasn’t it? Midway between us? Did he mean he couldn’t be bothered to drive to somewhere close to her? But, worst of all . . .
A pub???
She typed her reply. ‘I don’t do pubs, my darling. I do weekends in Paris at the George V, or maybe the Ritz Carlton or the Bristol.’
Then she deleted it. I’m being stupid, dreaming, all shot to hell by my nerves . . . From downstairs there was a ‘Whoop!’ from Joe, and then she could hear tumultuous roaring. A goal. Great. Big deal. Wow, Joe, I’m so happy for you.
Deleting her words, she replaced them with: ‘Darling, the Red Lion sounds wickedly romantic. 7.30. I’m not going to sleep either! All my love. M xxxx’
~ * ~
What if Joe had been reading her emails and was going to tail her tonight to the Red Lion? Michael thought, pulling up in the farthest, darkest corner of the car park. He climbed out of his pea-green Astra (Karen had taken the BMW) and walked nervously towards the front entrance of the pub, freshly showered and shaven, his breath minted, his body marinated in a Boss cologne Karen had once said made him smell manly, his belly feeling like it was filled with deranged moths.
He stopped just outside and checked his macho diver’s watch. 7.32. Taking a deep breath he went in.
And saw her right away.
Oh no.
His heart did not so much sink as burrow its way down to the bottom of his brand new Docksider yachting loafers.
She was sitting at the bar, in full public display - OK, the place was pretty empty - but worse than that, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter lay on the counter in front of her. She’d never told him that she smoked. But far, far, far worst of all, the bitch looked nothing like the photograph she had sent him. Nothing at all!
True it was the same red hair colour - well, henna-dyed red, at any rate - but there were no long tresses to caress - it had been cropped short and gelled into spikes that looked sharp enough to prick your fingers on. You never told me you’d cut your hear. Why not??? Her face was plain, and she was a good three or four stone heavier than in the photograph, with cellulite-pocked thighs bared by a vulgar skirt. She hadn’t lied about her age, but that was just about the only thing. And she’d caught his eye and was now smiling at him.
No. Absolutely not. No which way. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Michael turned, without looking back, and fled.
Roaring out of the parking lot, haemorrhaging perspiration in anger and embarrassment, switching off his mobile phone in case she tried to ring, he had to swerve to avoid some idiot driving in far too fast.
‘Dickhead!’ he shouted.
~ * ~
Margaret was relieved to see the car park was almost empty. Pulling into the farthest corner, she turned on the interior light, checked her face and her hair in the mirror, then climbed out and locked the car. 7.37. Just late enough, hopefully, for Michael to have arrived first. Despite her nerves, she walked on air through the front entrance.
To her disappointment there was no sign of him. A couple of young salesmen types at a table. A solitary elderly man. And on the bar stools, a plump, middle-aged woman with spiky red hair and a tarty skirt, who was joined by a tattooed, denim-clad gorilla who emerged from the gents, nuzzled her neck greedily, making her giggle, then retrieved a smouldering cigarette from the ashtray.
~ * ~
Michael, in his den, stared at the screen. ‘Bitch,’ he said. ‘What a bitch!’ With one click he dragged all Margaret’s emails to his trash bin. With another, he dragged her photograph to the same place. Then he emptied the trash.
~ * ~
Back home just before ten, Joe glanced up from a football game that looked like all the other football games Margaret had ever seen. ‘What happened to your night out with the girls?’ he asked.
‘I decided I’d been neglecting my husband too much recently.’ She put her arm around him, around her rock and kissed his cheek. ‘I love you,’ she said.
He actually took his eyes off the game to look at her, and then kissed her back. ‘I love you, too,’ he said.
Then she went upstairs to her room, and checked her mailbox. There was nothing. ‘Michael, I waited two hours,’ she began typing.
Then she stopped. It was cold in her den. Downstairs the television had given a cosy glow. And her rock had felt warm.
Sod you, Michael.
Just two clicks and he was gone from her life.
<
~ * ~
The Visitor
H.R.F. Keating
H. R. F. Keating, a former chair of the Crime Writers’ Association and President of the Detection Club, twice won the CWA Gold Dagger and also received the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger. A prolific novelist and short story writer, he was also a prominent critic of, and commentator on, the crime genre. He died in 2011. It is believed that this story, featuring the renowned Inspector Ghote, has only previously appeared in a Penguin India collection published in the 1990s.
~ * ~
P
aperwork, Inspector Ghote thought. Sitting here at my desk signing this, signing that. Routine also. Each and every crime seeming in the end just only the same. In detective books all is excitement, hundred per cent baffling mysteries, utmost shocking revelations. And in Bombay Crime Branch, what it is? Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Plus also routines. Routines, routines, rout . . .
A shadow fell over the sprawl of papers in front of him.
He looked up, realizing that absorbed in his thoughts he had heard only subconsciously the batwing doors open and clap to again. He saw now, standing looming over his desk, a big broad-shouldered Westerner. A fair-haired young man, perhaps not quite thirty, wearing a light-coloured suit, an open-necked shirt.
And what is this? A white man truly white. Paper-white. Blood-drained white.
Suddenly he thought that if he himself had been born only some twenty years earlier, seeing a white man shocked out of his senses, as this fellow standing in front of his desk clearly was - he was even unsteadily swaying a little - he would have felt as if he was confronting a sight he ought never to have witnessed. Some god revealed as a figure of straw. A maharani caught in a state of nakedness.
But this was now. Not that distant time.
‘Sit, sit,’ he said to the young man. ‘You are feeling faint, yes?’
‘Yes. I . . . Yes. Thanks ... Is it Inspector . . . er . . . Inspector Ghote? They told me . . .’
The swaying youngster - he had a British accent - managed to pull back one of the chairs lined up in front of the desk. He slid down on to it, but could do no more afterwards than to put his head in his hands.
Ghote allowed him time to recover.
‘Yes?’ he said at last. ‘They were directing you to my cabin?’
‘Yes. Yes. But yes, I’m sorry, I did feel faint. You were quite right. You see, I’ve just had a shock. I - I hoped it wasn’t. But it is. And it’s a shock. A terrible shock.’
Once more he fell silent and Ghote let him sit there.
‘Now, what sort of a shock is it?’ he enquired eventually.
‘I’ve just - I’ve just learnt. No. No. I’d better tell you the whole thing. As it happened.’
But having said that much, the young man fell yet again into a deep reverie.
At last Ghote prompted him, a little sharply. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you are giving full particulars. Name, place of residence, date of birth, occupation?’
‘Yes, yes. You’ll need to know all that. In the end. So, yes. Right. Henry Reymond. Er - from Britain. Residence, was it you asked? Yes, it’s 35 Northumberland Place, London, W2. Date of birth: October 31, 1966. Occupation - I’m in the travel business. I work for a London firm called Experience India. But I haven’t been with t
hem long, and this - this is the first time I’ve been here. To India. Yes. You see, they sent me to Calcutta. To explore the possibilities of Calcutta as a tourist centre.’
‘But you are here in Bombay itself.’
‘Yes, yes. I had to come. To check. Yes. To check whether . . . And - and I found that it was true. All true.’
‘Mr Reymond, I am thinking you are once more becoming altogether confused. Kindly begin from the beginning and proceed to final end.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Inspector. That’ll be the only way you’ll ever come to understand.’
‘Very well, what is this beginning?’
‘Oh yes, I know what that was. It was when I had just arrived at Calcutta airport. Virtually in my first few minutes on Indian soil. I did say I had never been here before, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, yes. You were telling so.’
‘Yes. My first time here. And I’ve only been working for Experience India for a few months. Before that I was with a firm in England that specializes in holidays in Spain. So I actually know almost nothing about India. But someone fell ill, and my boss thought I could probably manage this exploratory trip in his place. He - he said it might even be an advantage, me knowing nothing about India. I’d sort of see things the way our future customers would . . . But - but I’m losing track again. No, you see, it was while I was in the car our Delhi representative had arranged for me, going from Dum Dum airport to the hotel, that it all began to happen.’
Henry Reymond licked at his dry lips. ‘I’d exchanged a few words with the driver. He’d asked if this was my first visit, and I’d said it was. His English was OK but a bit difficult to understand. So after that - I was terribly tired after the flight - I just sat there looking out at what I could see in the dark, not thinking of anything much. And then - it was just after we’d got into the city itself, then I . . .’
Henry Reymond came to a complete check. Total silence.
‘And then, Mr Reymond?’
‘Then? What. . .? Oh yes, I was telling you. Well, then . . . then all of a sudden I leant forward and I said something.’
‘Yes? What it was? It is somehow important, no?’
‘Important? Yes. Yes, it bloody well is. You see, I said something, but I did not at all know what it was. Words had come out of my mouth. But I didn’t know what they meant. They were sort of - well, mellifluous words, but I had no idea what I was saying. But then my driver just turned his head back towards me and answered. In the same sort of gentle rounded language. And I realized then that the words I had spoken had been asking if the monsoon floods were still there.’
Henry Reymond looked at Ghote almost beseechingly.
‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘believe me. I had spoken in a language I didn’t at all know. I know what it was now. It was Bengali. But Inspector, I don’t know any Bengali. I’d never to my knowledge heard a word of it spoken. I don’t speak any of the Indian languages. Not a word. In the firm they told me anyone I’d have any dealings with would speak English.’
‘And this is what is causing you so much troubles?’ Ghote asked. ‘I am thinking: no problem.’
‘Oh, if it was only that, just seeming to speak Bengali. Or actually speaking it. I hardly thought about it at the time there in the car. I suppose I was too sort of stunned to say anything more. And then we arrived at the hotel, the Oberoi Grand, and as soon as I’d got to my room I simply collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.’
‘So perhaps this was some dream you were having, and not at all what had actually happened.’
‘Well, that’s what I thought in the morning. I convinced myself of it. But that wasn’t all.’
‘Something more was happening?’
‘Yes, it was. Quite a simple thing really. But - well, it made me realize I couldn’t have dreamt it all, about speaking Bengali.’
‘So what it was?’
‘Just this. After I’d had breakfast I thought I’d just take a stroll outside, to sort of get the feel of the place. Of Calcutta.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And almost at once I came across a stall selling sweets. In the arcade there, in the street, the street called Chowringhee. And - and I knew straight off what the sweets in one of the heaps in the stall were called. Sandesh. And I knew that I liked sandesh. Very, very much. But Inspector, till that moment I’d never heard the word, I swear. I mean, there are places in England where there are lots of Indians, and I think the shops sell Indian sweets. But I’ve never been near any of them. And yet I knew I liked sandesh. I bought some at once and knew that, though they were sort of gluey, they would easily break in half and that my fingers would get sugary as I did that. I knew, too, just how they would taste. Of boiled-down curdled milk. And when I ate the first one I even knew it was not quite the best kind. It was not karraa pakar. But Inspector, how could I have known those exact words, those Bengali words? And how could I have known what was the best kind of sandesh?’
Ghote wondered how he could explain it in a way that would calm this almost hysterical young Englishman. But before he had arrived at any conclusion Henry Reymond burst out again.
‘Inspector, it means that in another life I was a Bengali. Doesn’t it? I was a Bengali. Me. Me. It means that, doesn’t it? It must.’
‘Well, yes, that would be so. But Mr Reymond it is not something of too much dismay.’
‘Oh, I know what you are thinking. And yes, I could have come to terms with it. If that was all. An Indian in a former life. It’d be something to talk about back home, joke about even.’
‘But it is not all?’
‘God, no. It’s not. It’s not. You see almost at once I got an inkling of the full horror of it all. Eating my sandesh and sort of pondering the extraordinary fact of me knowing what it was, I walked on and turned into a road I knew, without having to look for any street sign, was called Park Street. I knew that. Knew it. And I knew that it led to the Park Street Cemetery. That must have been the former-life Bengali inside me, telling me that. But me, there in the present, I remembered, too, that my boss in London had told me that the Park Street Cemetery, with all its tombs of Britons of the past, could be one of the sights to put in this planned tour of ours. So I went inside, I wandered about. I’d almost forgotten that Bengali business. And then, suddenly . . .’
In an instant then, the young Briton lost all the faint returning colour that had come into his cheeks.
Tea, Ghote thought.
He reached across his desk for the bell to call a peon. But before he had banged down the bell’s knob the young man spoke again.
‘Inspector . . .’ The word came almost crawling out from between suddenly parched lips. ‘Inspector, there in the cemetery I saw the place where I had left the body. On the tomb of Colonel William Kirkpatrick. Inspector, I committed murder.’
‘You have been committing murder? In the Park Street Cemetery in Calcutta itself? When were you doing such? And why also? And why have you come to Bombay to confess? If it is confession you are giving.’
‘I came here - I had to come here to make absolutely sure. That’s why. You see, it was from Bombay that I went to Calcutta in the first place. Or that Pranav Bandopadhyaya, lecturer in Bengali at Bombay University, went back on impulse to Calcutta that day in 1937. I - or he. Or me. I don’t know. But I know that about a year before I had taken it into my head to send a Diwali card to - to the girl I was once in love with, Rekha. Rekha, who had been hurriedly married to that rich swine when her parents found out about us. And months later a letter had come from her, telling me she had long ago left the swine, had lived a miserable, hand-to-mouth life and, I gathered between her lines, was now the mistress of a Scotsman in a big Calcutta shipping firm, who was abominably ill-treating her, locking her inside when he chose to go away, forcing her to obey him in everything. And that letter happened to arrive the very day university classes finished. So, without a word to anyone, I rushed out, jumped into a Victoria, went to V.T. Station and caught the Calcutt
a mail.’
For a moment Ghote wanted to ask why, if there was so much hurry, he had not taken a plane. Then he realized. 1937. The man sitting in front of him in Bombay Police Headquarters in the year 1996 was talking about going to Calcutta in 1937.
‘So after two days I was reaching, late in the night, to the Howrah station.’ Was the English now coming from the mouth of the young man acquiring a Bengali lilt? ‘There I was at once taking a rickshaw, with just only enough sense to go so far as Sealdah station. From there I would walk to the flat where the Scotsman was keeping Rekha. It was the night of Purnima, a full moon. But there was no one to see me, except more rickshaw wallahs sleeping by the roadsides. As I hurried onwards all I was hearing was the ting-ting of their bells as I passed.’
Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology] Page 11